


Adrift, Ashore

by fluffernutter8



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Original Character-centric, like almost original fiction, this is like skin of its teeth fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone in the navy is an officer, or a gentleman. VM-verse post movie oneshot.</p><p>(Make sure to read the tags, because this is a little weird.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift, Ashore

This is all you've ever wanted to do. You remember the big, worn faces leaning down to you when you were little and asking, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And okay, maybe you didn't say, "I want to be a lieutenant in the United States Navy," but you always said the same thing: "I want to fly."

You know that meant most people pictured you in a cute little uniform, explaining how to buckle the seatbelts and pointing out the emergency exits. Maybe that one liberal aunt saw you coming over the intercom and telling everyone that this was their captain speaking. Mostly everyone figured it would pass. You would want eventually want to be a teacher or a social worker or, hell, a scientist.

When you told your parents junior year of high school that you were going to join the navy, they were...surprised isn't really the word. It was some mixture of disbelief and skepticism. It wasn't like this was the family legacy, six generations of Harpers in the navy or something. Your mom was an accountant. Your dad taught high school Spanish. You lived in suburban Philadelphia. It wasn't like you had to do this.

"We have the money, and your grades are good," Mom said, patient and puzzled. She was vigorously knitting something that looked mostly like a mass of yarn but would probably end up being a sweater for an old aunt or a blanket for a new baby at her church. "You can go anywhere you want. Don't you want to look around before you commit to something? If you're nervous that you don't know what you're going to study, you have so much time to figure it out, sweetheart." There was something steely beneath the endearment, but you and Mom had the same steel.

"I want to fly," you said, "and I want to help people."

That's still true, but the best answer you've heard since came from a rookie. "I did it so other people don't have to. This is important, but it can fuck you up," he'd said, tipsy, solemn. "I was already fucked up. No reason for someone else to get that way."

You were NROTC from the first day of college, early morning runs and pushups that made your roommate think you were crazy, classes in Naval Science that made you wonder the same until you focused and refocused the idea of flying in your mind. You still didn't know what you wanted to study, so you were a B student in survey courses through freshman year. You went on your first summer cruise after finals. It made it clear how hard it was going to be. It made it clear how much you wanted it.

You met Gabe first day of sophomore year. You were taking European Civilization for the history credit. He was taking because it was a requirement for history majors. The professor, staring out at a lecture hall of invisible student faces, made alphabetical partners for the semester-long research project. You were Harper. He was Hellinger. You traded contact details awkwardly after class and decided to would meet up every Tuesday in the student union.

In September you would ask him questions to make sure you understood the reading. In October you found out he had three sisters, one older and two younger, that he worked in the campus bookstore, and that he had always thought he was going to be a doctor, but any time they dissected anything during high school science, he was the only person in class who threw up. You started meeting on Thursday too, even though you didn’t have enough work on your project for it to really make sense. In November he told you that he saw your procession for Veteran’s Day.

“I like the way you are wear your uniform,” he said. “You look very-” You brace yourself because you’ve heard that one before. College guys are surprisingly into the uniform thing. You just didn’t think Gabe would be one of those guys. “Focused,” he finished. “Like it was the only place you wanted to be.”

You were so relieved to hear him say that, to have it confirmed that he was the kind of guy you thought, that you admitted, “It is the only place I know I want to be. I don’t even know what I want to study, I’m going crazy over it, but I know that I want to get to fly.”

“What do you mean?”

And so, leaning over the crumbs from your blueberry scone and the chocolate-cinnamon bread that you ate half of, you talked for the first time about the dream you’ve had since you were a kid: “I’m standing on the edge of this cliff. It’s all rocks, and my legs feel strong, but I put out my arms and I step off into the air, and I just…I fly. And it’s the best thing in the world.”

You’d never noticed, until he paused as he thought about what you’d said, that his shaggy hair looked comforting rather than childish, and his eyes were this kind of blue that made you think of the soprano in your mom’s church singing Ave Maria. “You realize that when you become a pilot you don’t actually grow wings?” he said, gently, to cut the tension of told secrets.

“We’re not pilots,” you said back, your face too close, your tone meant for an Italian restaurant with violin in the background, not for the bright lights of the food court. “We’re aviators.”

He smiled. “Of course you are. A bird woman.”

At the end of December, just before winter break, you met for the last time. You bought each other’s drink and traded. You congratulated yourselves on your paper and your seamless presentation in class, talked winter break plans, and then favorite music and movies and best pizza in the area and places you wanted to go before you died. They were shutting down the student union, lights going off and gates turning the stores into their nighttime selves, before Gabe stood, reluctant. You said goodbye, wished him a safe trip home, went to throw out the cups. When you walked past the table on your way out, there was a folded piece of paper on it with your name on the outside.

_Computer science because it’s a tier II desirable major, and a minor in international policy because if you’re going to have to do your flying halfway around the world you should know why you’re there._

_Or whatever you think is right. Because you’re a bird woman, and you’re going to be spectacular._

You caught up with him in the darkened plaza outside. You caught the back of his shirt. You kissed him.

You brought him to the military ball for your final two years, and introduced him to your parents at graduation. When your mom said that she was proud of you, you weren’t sure if she meant because of your BA or because you found Gabe. Whichever it was, you were more focused on your commissioning ceremony. There were times, especially toward the end, when you worried about things like eggs and baskets. But as they said your name- “Ensign Laura Katherine Harper has been designated a student naval aviator, and will be attending Aviation Preflight Indoctrination in Pensacola, Florida”- you breathed out and smiled.

Looking back, your years while you were in training and Gabe was getting his masters to become an archivist were some of the toughest of your life. You were never worried that you would break up with Gabe, not when he was your best friend, not when you spoke to him more than your parents, not when you breathed in rhythm with him, but being apart wasn’t easy. Still, somehow the memories that stick with you from that time are the good ones: laughing at movies together over the phone, and the time Gabe drove for a day and a half over a long weekend to show up your apartment at three in the morning, eat pancakes with you, fall asleep with his head on your shoulder, and turn around to go home.

When you officially became an aviator, your mom was the one who pinned your wings on. She told you that she was proud of you, of your focus and your drive to what you wanted. Gabe proposed later that night when it was just the two of you in your apartment. He was still in his suit from dinner with your parents, looking a little rumpled now. His hair had grown out a little bit from the adult length that he usually kept it now; it brushed his collar softly. You grabbed the front of his shirt. You kissed him. You said yes.

You were stationed at Oceana, Virginia. Gabe got a job working on documents for the Virginia Beach Public Library. You were married for six months before you deployed for a year and a half. You couldn’t tell Gabe where you were flying, but every time you spoke he asked how it felt, just to smile his smile when you told him, rushing, uncontrolled, how it felt to be so fast, so high, surrounded by air, how it felt to really be a bird woman.

When you got pregnant, it was probably the best time for it. You had just come back from deployment, which would probably give you a solid amount of shore time. Gabe was settling in at his new job. You knew that he wasn’t entirely happy there, but when you had been transferred to Lemoore, you knew that exciting jobs for historians/archivists weren’t going to be easy to find. Telling him would make him so happy. You’d known he was ready for kids for a long time. You had been telling him you were ready for nearly as long, but the truth was that you only were in a vague way, like you could imagine some future version of yourself smiling down at an amorphous child. Which probably meant that you weren’t ready at all.

This was all you’d ever wanted to do, and that was the real problem. You loved your plane and your squad. You still dreamed of stepping off that cliff, smiling as there was no way down. But when it came time to petition to be allowed to fly while you were pregnant, your hand went to your belly and you said nothing. For once in your life, you did not need to be the bird woman. For once you found a reason to stay grounded.

Michael was born on a foggy evening in September. Gabe had cut his hair because he thought that he should look grown up for this. You didn’t tell him that he had his t-shirt on inside out. You focused on his hushed blue eyes and pushed.

Michael was eighteen months old when you were deployed again. It was harder than anything in your life, and you knew that the memories of this time would be of leaving him reaching for you from Gabe’s arms.

But every time Gabe asked about flying, you knew your smile gave away how much you loved it, how every time was beautiful. Until Singapore.

* * *

 

You wake up and you know that you are in your hotel bed. Your memories of last night are collaged, the smoky, distorted images of funhouse mirrors, but you feel in your body what happened. You don’t think you breathe the entire way back to the ship. You’re afraid of being late, but it’s still the early morning. You didn’t think to check the clock.

You say nothing for three days. You act the same around the guys, spinning back remarks and keeping them in line, the same way you’ve done for years when you thought of them as the brothers who would always have your back. You do your hours in the air, but for the first time in your life the air is suffocating. You dream of your cliff and your outstretched arms, but the rocks crumble beneath you, and you, no bird woman, crumble with them.

You say nothing to Gabe. You focus on Michael when you speak. You sing him “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” the Peter, Paul and Mary version that has always made you feel snug. That has always been your special song. You sang it to him the night he was born. You sang it to him the night you laid him in his nursery, the hospital blanket and pajamas and cap still on him. You sang it to him the night before you left. You sing it now, softly and softly and softer, until he is long past asleep and Gabe is resting his eyes on you and not even asking about the flying, just asking “Laur, are you okay?”

You take the longest showers you’re allowed. P.E. comments on it, a braying statement about how you’ve never reminded him of his teen sister back in Jersey ‘til now.

“Must make you feel all icky inside, having the hots for someone who reminds you of your sister,” you say, half trying, but it’s enough.

When you finish your shower on the fourth day, someone is waiting for you in the hall. You do not panic, but your arms feel heavy.

“Sorry,” his voice says from against the wall. “I’ll stay over here, but I had to get you alone.”

It’s Logan Echolls. He’s a few years younger than you, famous for something he hasn’t done, or did ten years ago, or when he was born. They call him Mouth because sometimes he won’t shut up; his remarks are never the blowhard canon blasts of some of the other guys, but they can slip out, knife-sharp, when common sense would tell him to be quiet. But you’ve seen something in his eyes that makes you think that Mouth doesn’t quite cover it.

Your breath frees fractionally. “Why did you need to get me alone? You taking lines from bad action movies now?”

“After school specials maybe.” He is leaning against to bulkhead, shadowed, but you can see his hand come up to rub at the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to ask you…did something happen to you in Singapore?”

For a moment, nothing moves. That’s ridiculous, of course. Everything is moving- the earth and the ship beneath you, the thousands of people aboard and your own heart- but for a moment everything feels still. “How did you know?”

“The showers,” Logan says. “You seem tired all the time, and you don’t smile when you come back from a flight.”

“Wow,” you say softly. You come to lean beside him. It’s easier this way. You don’t have to look him in the eye. “Did you take detective lessons when you had leave last time?”

You feel bad almost immediately as you remember what happened to Logan Echolls last time he had leave, but he just says softly, “Something like that,” and then after a pause, “Something like this happened to someone I was close to when we were in high school.” He glances down, and it’s a relief. “I was part of it. There were…drugs there, drugs I brought.” You don’t realize you’ve stepped back until he smiles a little. Self-deprecating would be the word for it if that wasn’t also the word for making faux-modest jokes about your weight or your age. “I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, knowing that, but I’ll regret what happened that night until the day I die. And if you want to talk about what happened, if you want to give me a name, I will stand beside you whatever it takes.” Very suddenly he looks fierce. You don’t expect it from him, not after being surrounded for half your life by men of compact menace, but it doesn’t frighten you. “If it’s someone in the squad, if it’s the captain of the boat, if it’s the admiral of the goddamn fleet, I will be there if you want me.”

Logan was never someone you were close to, but very suddenly he knows more about you than almost anyone. The knowledge slips into your mind, neatly as if it never left, that it was Logan Echolls who told you that he joined up so somebody else wouldn’t have to. “You were there,” you start, “At the bar. I was drinking, and I needed someone to walk me back.” You want to go back to that moment when you stood in that room full of brothers who were like comfortable blankets, who you trusted to keep you safe. “He volunteered, and I can still picture his face, laughing because I was saying something drunk and stupid. I don’t remember him coming into the room, but the next morning- I could tell.”

“You know who it was?”

You nod. “I have to see him every day.” This isn’t uncommon. You’ve known that for years. But usually it happened to women with bad childhoods and bad marriages, women whose vulnerability draped them like grief. But maybe that was what he had seen, your secret, shrunken core that worried that this was all you were good at, so he had taken it from you. “The worst part…this was all I ever wanted to do. And now even up in the air, it’s like he’s there with me.”

“Do you want to press charges? I can find out about it for you want. My girlfriend-” something expands in his face, an unstoppable softening of his mouth. “She has a background in law. Plus she’s wily.”

You know he is not talking about his pop star girlfriend with the sharp grin. You hope that his new girlfriend is worth his impulsive bloom of a smile. “I’ll let you know if I need her wiliness.”

There is a silence, bowing uncomfortably between you. “Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs and ducks his head slightly. “You would have figured it out eventually.”

“You believe that?”

“These lips,” he flicks a pair of fingers toward his mouth, sounding more like himself than he has since your conversation started. “Speak only the golden truth.” And you smile.

You can’t tell Gabe over phone or video chat, not with the possibility of someone barging in to shove you off right in the middle. You email him something shorter and blander than you feel. You wish to be home again like a message in a bottle, improbable and desperate.

That night you dream of your cliff. Your arms still do not hold you aloft, but as you hit the water you realize that all is not lost. You realize that you know how to row yourself ashore.

**Author's Note:**

> Written just into December, but for vmficrecs November prompts.
> 
> Laura is named after The Good Wife's Laura Hellinger, and The West Wing's Kate Harper.


End file.
